


After the Fire

by Sheila_Snow



Category: Hornblower (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, M/M, Pre-Slash, non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-05-05
Updated: 2004-05-05
Packaged: 2017-10-05 00:59:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/36022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sheila_Snow/pseuds/Sheila_Snow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Horatio hadn't made it off the fire ship unscathed?</p>
            </blockquote>





	After the Fire

**Author's Note:**

> This story is based on the A&amp;E Hornblower universe and will probably make more sense if you've seen the episode, "The Fire Ships." This story is unbetaed, so all mistakes are mine.
> 
> There is some mild non-consensual content within, so please be warned!

Captain Sir Edward Pellew strode into the crowded room with little more than a glance at the bewigged popinjay whose only purpose in life was to announce the presence of his betters at overblown gatherings such as this. The man sputtered at the unseemly haste of Pellew's entrance, hurriedly announcing him in that annoying nasal twang apparently reserved solely for those of his questionable occupation.

Pellew stopped abruptly in the grand entranceway, but not for the reason of making the ignorant lout's job any easier. Glancing over at the almost floor-to-ceiling mirror, he caught a glimpse of his own reflection in the bright surface . . . and an understanding of _why_ he had managed to startle both a midshipman and junior lieutenant into near tongue-tied incoherence merely by asking for directions. The face that peered back at him, the one with the drawn eyebrows and flashing eyes, certainly did not fit the air of practiced indifference that he habitually cultivated as a captain in His Majesty's navy.

Taking a deep breath, Pellew tried to bring his smouldering anger into some degree of abeyance, as a matter of pride if not out of simple necessity. He refused to let his peers know how rattled he was at being outmaneuvered in this particular instance. Vitally important as it was to him, there could be no reason why any frigate captain would be so . . . concerned . . . about such an insignificant and commonplace decision from the Admiralty.

Using the vantage point of the raised dias of the entranceway, Pellew's gaze raked the inhabitants of the smoke-filled ballroom, his eyes dismissing the women's jeweled gowns and the red-coated Marine and Army officers to more closely inspect the veritable sea of bright blue and gold uniforms . . . searching for one _particular_ man in one such uniform.

There. On the far side of the vast room, artfully framed in the dual amber glow of fireplace and chandelier.

As if feeling the narrowed eyes upon him even across the mass of milling humanity, his quarry looked up from his animated conversation and locked gazes with Pellew. A slow smile spreading across his face, the man bowed slightly and held up his glass in mocking salute.

_Bloody arrogant bastard!_ Pellew's nostrils flared, but he let no other emotion show on his face through sheer force of will. Nodding tightly in acknowledgment, Pellew headed down the stairs and into the crowd, having already plotted the quickest course to his destination.

The revelers parted like waves before him, whether through accident or design, he did not know. It was all to the well and good, however, since in his present mood he had no intention of tacking around obstructions, much less engaging in the pointless drivel of polite conversation that was normally required at these gatherings.

He stopped in front of a small group of Naval officers and local dignitaries, once again locking gazes with his prey in their midst.

"Good evening, Captain Foster," he said, with a small insolent bow of his own.

\---------------------------------------

Acting Lieutenant Horatio Hornblower came slowly back to consciousness with a reluctant sigh. He did not yet have the strength to lift his head, but his brain went about cataloging the available sensory input nonetheless, merely not with its customary efficiency.

Rough canvas beneath his cheek, the normal scents of sea and salt and sweat entwined with the pungent odor of wet hemp and lamp oil, along with a host of other odors that his muddled senses still refused to classify. Shipboard then, of course, belowdecks given the lamp oil, but where? Certainly not his own berth aboard the _Indy_; he would know that patently familiar place even in his sleep. The bunk upon which he lay was firm if not overly wide, as determined by the grip of his numb fingers on either side.

He became conscious of a glow across his tightly closed eyes, silently encouraging him with its beckoning brightness to open them, if only for a moment. Still not lifting his head, he barely cracked open the eyelid not currently pressed tightly into the canvas and squinted into the shaft of daylight streaming through a bulkhead screen. He automatically estimated the approximate time of day by the angle of the sun's rays through the stern cabin windows . . . until his still befuddled conscious mind registered the significance of the _source_ of that sunlight's entry.

_Stern windows?_

He anxiously attempted to lever himself up from the cot and was only mildly surprised when his body refused to respond to the command. Moaning aloud, he buried his face back into the canvas and wondered how the hell he'd managed to end up lying in the captain's cabin, especially in his condition . . . whatever that _exact_ condition might be.

And considering the state of his complete undress, he had no doubt managed to ruin yet _another_ uniform in the process.

\---------------------------------------

"My dear Captain Pellew, how are you this most illustrious evening?" Foster's voice was polite and jovial, fairly oozing with cordial graciousness. He leaned back nonchalantly against the mantle of the softly flickering fireplace, lit low and sparing for its light but oppressive still in the stuffy closeness of the crowded room.

Pellew pondered briefly whether it would be the epaulettes or the lace that would catch fire first if he were to shove the insufferable bastard into the flames, but recovered himself with his usual aplomb. "I am well, thank you, sir."

Foster made an obvious point of looking behind Pellew and searching the immediate vicinity around the other post captain. With a small frown of feigned concern, he said, "You come alone tonight, Sir Edward." He raised an eyebrow in mock surprise. "Surely your first lieutenant at least could be spared to attend an event as grand as the governor's personal soiree?"

His eyes narrowing, Pellew responded tightly, "I regret that my First is occupied with shipboard matters, now that we are short another officer capable of attending to such duties." He glanced at Foster's bevy of sycophants, mentally wishing them all adrift somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic. He despised this parry and riposte of veiled insinuations, now more so than at any time in his life, and he would _much_ rather have had the option of parlaying with Foster in private. "I understand, however, that the _Dreadnought_ has only recently achieved her full complement of officers and crew, Captain?" Pellew asked, almost blandly.

There was a contemptuous snort from just to the right of Foster, and Pellew turned slightly to confront the source.

Rail thin and beak-nosed, the man lounging against the wall somehow managed to look unkempt even in his studiously correct lieutenant's uniform. Holding a glass of port negligently in a studied imitation of the "legend" standing next to him, he was openly smirking at Pellew's question.

Pellew said nothing, merely staring at the lieutenant with the utmost calm and seeming boredom, until the officer came to attention, almost against his will, under the force of Pellew's steady gaze.

Lifting his chin sharply, Pellew said, "You had something to say, Lieutenant. . . ?"

"R . . . Robinson, sir, first lieutenant of the _Dreadnought_, sir."

Pellew cocked his head slightly and made a questioning upward movement of one eyebrow. "And?"

"And wh . . . what, sir?"

Transferring his gaze back to Foster, who was merely watching his first lieutenant founder with every indication of enjoying the process, Pellew continued impatiently, "I asked if you had something to say, Lieutenant."

Robinson shot a look of questioning horror in Foster's direction, who merely smiled and shrugged in amused indifference.

Still staring intently at Foster, Pellew said, "Well, spit it out, man." He did not allow his voice to rise in volume, but he saw in his peripheral vision that its deepened timbre caused the hapless lieutenant to straighten his spine even more, if that were at all possible.

"No, sir! I had nothing to say, sir!"

Pellew did not reply, having already lost interest in the beleaguered lieutenant. His sole and immediate focus was the _Dreadnought_'s captain, who was standing, still smiling, before him.

_That one can smile, and smile, and be a villain._

Pellew inwardly seethed at the triumph and smugness manifest in that smile, but he let nothing more than his eyes convey that anger, and this to Foster alone. The conversation in their immediate area died down to mere whispers nonetheless, as the silent clash of wills between the two senior officers became apparent to even the most inebriated of guests. The flickering firelight fell on the two intent faces, neither one willing to give up the wind-gage to the other.

It was Foster who finally broke the tableau with his trademark booming laugh. Turning to his still ramrod-straight first lieutenant, he dismissed his junior with a negligent wave, saying, "Oh, be off with you, Albert. I'm sure you can find a suitable audience for your stunning communication skills . . . somewhere else. The kennels perhaps?" The contempt in his voice was blatantly evident, and the rest of his hangers-on laughed along with the glittering captain at his first lieutenant's expense.

Shoving off from the mantle as his officer slunk away, Foster approached Pellew and said, sotto voice, "An excellent seaman, but I'm afraid he doesn't have the brains or balls that God gave a sparrow." He added conspiratorially, "Junior officers, you know how it is."

"No," replied Pellew stiffly. "I'm afraid that I do not know." He turned so that his back was to the huddled group behind them and added pointedly, "Until recently I had a _full_ crew of _competent_ junior officers." His voice was low and dangerous, and it would take a fool not to recognize the approaching storm.

Foster was many things, but a fool he was not. His voice was still light and mocking, but it held no evidence of reefing before that storm. "Oh, _that_ again, Sir Edward." He sighed theatrically. "I thought we had this matter resolved yesterday."

"Not bloody likely, sir." Pellew's voice rasped darkly amidst the resumption of airy chatter and bright laughter. "Not bloody likely at all."

\---------------------------------------

There was a "feel" to every ship, such that any man who spent nearly every day of the last several years of his life aboard her could differentiate his ship from another merely through this "feel" alone. You soon came to know how she handled fully loaded with shot and powder and supplies, how her action livened as the stores were nearly depleted at the end of a long voyage, how she rode a storm-driven swell, the unique sound her rigging made running before a freshening nor'easter.

Even at anchor, each ship had its own feel. The very individual sounds of her timbers as they rubbed mercilessly against each other with the unceasing tides, how she rode and checked as she snubbed up against her anchor cable, a thousand and one unique sounds and motions. Even the smells were different, although they all had in common the standard scents of rope and damp and tightly packed humanity.

Horatio knew there was something amiss, and oddly enough it was the "not right-ness" of the captain's cabin itself that first brought the alarm to his unaccountably clouded mind, rather than the ship's feel as a whole.

He had been in the captain's cabin many times, more often than he would have ever thought possible, or advisable for that matter, as a lowly green midshipman. Lord knew he had stared often enough at the larboard bulkhead, standing stiffly at attention while reporting to the captain, that he had memorized every knot and whorl of its heavy timbers. It was easier to focus on the minor imperfections of the innocent planks than to possibly, _possibly_ see censure or disappointment in his captain's eyes.

Yet, oddly enough, it was not the physical surroundings -- which he could see little of in his present state in any case -- but the _smells_ that made him uneasy. _His_ captain's cabin smelled of a mixture of the sea, sandalwood, brandy and coffee . . . a combination that conversely made him feel more at "home" than the residence where he spent his childhood years.

Horatio's eyes flew open in consternation. That was it! This cabin _did_ smell like his father's home, a stultifying amalgam of pipe smoke, medicinals and close air -- a combination that had often impelled the young Horatio to seek the solace of the outdoors to escape.

If not the _Indy_ \-- then what ship _was_ this? And why was he in her captain's cabin?

She was a British ship, of that there was no question. The muffled voices coming from the partially open skylight were English. Why couldn't he remember? His brain felt like it was packed in gauze and the more he attempted to concentrate, the more his thoughts seemed to skitter away like fragments of threadbare canvas in a gale.

He attempted once again to lever himself from the cot, and this time made it far enough to feel exquisite pain lance across his shoulders and back with the attempt. As if only waiting for the exertion to make itself known, he felt his flesh prickle and sting like it had once long ago after falling asleep on the beach without his shirt -- the resultant burns earning him a sharp rebuke from his physician father.

_Burns?_ Horatio gasped. His ailing memory finally made the connection. _The fire ship!_

But he couldn't seem to remember the outcome of his desperate fight to save the _Indy_. What if he had failed, what if he had allowed her to burn? Was that why he was aboard a different vessel?

Damn, damn, damn, what if the captain. . . .

He squeezed his eyes shut in both physical and mental pain and made another supreme effort to rise. He had to _know,_ he simply had to.

Shoving upwards through sheer force of will, he struggled to his hands and knees and then moaned as his vision dimmed and the cabin swayed alarmingly as if in the grips of a violent hurricane. He nearly collapsed again back onto the cot but stubbornly refused to do so, knowing he would be unable to make a second attempt any time soon if he allowed his weakness to overcome him.

Breathing in painful gasps, he maneuvered slowly to where he was sitting gingerly on the edge of the cot, warily examining the seemingly endless expanse from the cot to the cabin door. He squinted, waiting for the room to stop moving so frantically. It didn't help that his vision had narrowed so much that it appeared as if he were looking through the bore of the ship's telescope.

Surely these symptoms could not be all from his burns, perhaps he had managed to hit his head?

As he sat gathering his waning strength, the cabin door flung open and in burst a tall man, bustling officiously to the side of his cot. Horatio eyed him warily, not recognizing him even as he came close enough for his bleary eyes to focus properly on the man's face.

"There now, lad, what ye doing up and about? Ye have orders to rest and recover, don't ye know."

"No, I don't know," Horatio said, slurring the words slightly. "Who are you? Where am I? What ship is this?"

The man merely tsk'd in response, attempting to turn Horatio by one arm and bring him back down onto the cot.

Horatio struggled against the less than gentle push. "No! Please, I have to know, the _Indy_, is she. . . ?"

The man's eyes narrowed in exasperation, but he replied, "The _Indefatigable_ is fine, lad, whole and hearty, which is more than I can say for ye."

Horatio's determined eyes softened some at that news, and the man unbent enough to continue. "I'm Dr. McMillan, lad. I'm the surgeon on this here ship and I've been tasked. . . ." His lips tightened with something that might have been distaste, ". . . .to see that ye don't harm yourself by trying to move about before. . . ." He hesitated again, ". . . .before ye are ready."

"But. . . ."

Horatio flinched as a strong hand gripped his chin, effectively silencing him with a firm upward push. "No more _but's,_ ye hear me? Ye in pain?"

Exhausted and emotionally spent, Horatio nodded briefly in assent. Learning that the _Indy_ was fine had momentarily taken the wind out of his sails, and his back and shoulders were definitely letting themselves be known, now that his immediate fears were assuaged.

And heavens above, but he was tired.

The doctor released Horatio's chin and reached into a bag stowed in a large chest near the cot. Pulling out a small flask, he poured a measure into a wooden cup and held it to Horatio's lips. "Here, drink up, lad."

Horatio almost choked on the liquid: neat rum and some sort of vile-tasting medicinal that he would know the name of, if he weren't so stupifyingly tired. Still gasping from the potency of its contents, Horatio didn't protest when the doctor grabbed hold of his arm and turned him to lie back down on the cot.

It didn't take long for his vision to dim again and unconsciousness to take him down into the abyss, but it was long enough for him to realize he _still_ didn't know the name of the ship he was on, or why he was here.

\---------------------------------------

"I want to see him."

Foster paused in their journey down to the quay and turned to face Pellew. "Good heavens, Sir Edward, your persistence makes me think you are doubting my ability as a captain to see to the well-being of my men."

Pellew snarled, "He is _not_ your. . . ."

Seeing the triumph in the slight upturn of Foster's lips, even in the paltry illumination of the quarter moon, Pellew again visibly reined in his fraying temper. Lifting his head and straightening his shoulders, he started again. "You misunderstand me, sir." Pellew continued on down the slate-lined path of the gardens as he spoke, his hands automatically moving back and clasping behind his back. "I merely wish to properly thank the officer who quite gallantly saved my ship nearly at the expense of his own life."

"Oh, you are quite welcome, Sir Edward." Foster laughed and held up a hand in mock capitulation as Pellew spun around in indignant fury. "Come, come, Captain Pellew, I _do_ quite understand what you were attempting to say. After all, the boy saved my life too, as well as your ship."

Foster walked on past Pellew, flicking a bit of dirt from his dress coat. "It was, of course, the reason I felt compelled to bring the lad aboard my ship and have his injuries attended to, seeing as you were still involved with ensuring the safety of your vessel."

"I protest, sir! I. . . ." Pellew clenched his jaw and started again. ". . . ._We_ were more than capable of seeing to Mr. Hornblower's needs aboard the _Indefatigable_. There was certainly no need for you to. . . ."

"Hogwash, Sir Edward!" said Foster. "What would you have had me do -- tell the lazy louts manning that boat to row around an exploding fire ship to bring an injured man back to his vessel when the _Dreadnought_ was much closer to hand? Or perhaps I and the other captains should have waited upon this mere midshipman by rowing him back to your ship ourselves when there were other matters of vital importance requiring our attention?"

Pellew did not respond immediately, and for a short distance of the path they walked in oppressive silence beneath a sheltering canopy of densely packed carob trees, blocking almost totally the moon above and the lights of the garrison town astern. The sounds of their soft footfalls echoed eerily in the dense blackness before Pellew's voice, as forbidding and impenetrable as the enveloping darkness itself, resonated once more through the still night air. "Regardless, Captain Foster, Acting Lieutenant Hornblower is _my_ officer, and he should have been returned to me as soon as your doctor had seen to his injuries."

Foster waited until they had emerged into the open air and light before stopping to confront Pellew again. "Has anyone ever told you that you are as tenacious as a shark when you grasp onto some damn fool concept, Sir Edward?"

"I'm certain _you_ have, at some point in the past." Pellew narrowed his eyes again and continued firmly, "However, the matter remains."

"Mr._Midshipman_ Hornblower is now a member of my crew, Sir Edward, and hopefully _I_ shall do a better job of preparing him for the lieutenant's exam than you have proven to be able to do. That is, _if_ I am able to cure him of his insubordinate behavior with the firm hand and discipline that has been obviously lacking in his education to date."

"You dare. . . ." Pellew's voice bit like the wind on a cold winter's day and his body faintly shook with rage.

Foster, perhaps realizing he had pushed the other man too hard, turned on his heel and continued out through the gardens and past the silent sentry at the massive stone gate. He felt more than heard Pellew's presence, as the man walked close enough beside him to feel his body heat, even against the backdrop of the warm Mediterranean climate. "I refuse to discuss the matter further, Sir Edward. The transfer was approved by Admiral Staunton yesterday and you have had your say."

"_After_ the transfer had already crossed the admiral's desk!" hissed Pellew, following Foster down the time-worn steps of Governors' Landing. "You come very close to dishonor with the course you steer, as well you know, _Captain._"

Foster gestured to the coxswain of his boat crew, never taking his gaze from Pellew. "The admiral felt differently, obviously. Midshipman Hornblower _failed_ his exam, sir, and since the _Dreadnought_ is woefully short of young gentlemen while the _Indefatigable_ has a full complement. . . ." He stepped into the stern sheets of his gig and continued, "The needs of the Navy, you understand."

He did not allow Pellew time to respond as he impatiently ordered the coxswain to get the boat underway. "I will consider your request to see the lad before we sail, Sir Edward," and touched his hat to the other captain.

As the gig pulled smartly away from the landing, Foster glanced back to find the silent figure of Captain Sir Edward Pellew still watching him, expressionless, as calm and impervious as the Sphinx.

Foster stifled a sudden unexpected shudder.

Without a breath of air in the preternaturally still harbor, he wondered where the devil that piercing chill had just come from.

\---------------------------------------

Lieutenant Bracegirdle straightened his shoulders as the gruff, "Come!" pierced the cabin door like an axe head. Nothing to help for it then but to face the lion in his den, no matter that the lion in question currently had a thorn in its paw that seemed unremovable.

Taking a deep breath, he turned the handle and stepped inside the cabin, his eyes unerringly going to the solitary figure astern. He almost didn't have to look up, as he knew from long experience what he would find. Whenever troubled, his captain could always be found standing in front of the large expanse of stern windows, legs braced, hands behind his back, no matter if the _Indy_ were riding a deep swell, or as now, pulling petulantly and half-heartedly at her anchor cable as if anxious to be back at sea.

"Yes, what is it?" Clipped, terse, the voice of a man who's lost patience with the world.

Bracegirdle momentarily rolled his eyes heavenward, for either guidance or protection, he knew not which. _Just take a deep breath and get on with it, Bracey._

"Sir, I have to report that two of the men have come up missing." He braced himself, knowing already his captain's response: the spinning around on one heel, the demand to know what complete idiot had been on watch during the men's disappearance, the furrow between his flashing eyes that meant _somebody_ was going to be cleaning the bilges with his bare hands.

Instead, there was the barest cant to the captain's dark head. Pellew continued to stare out the windows at the naked cliffs surrounding the harbor, as intently as if they were an approaching flotilla of enemy ships. After a moment, almost sounding distracted, he murmured a soft, "Indeed."

Bracey couldn't have been more surprised if the response had been, "Long live the French Republic."

"Sir?" He was too amazed to be disturbed over the slight squeak in his voice.

"Was there something else, Mr. Bracegirdle?"

"N . . . no, sir, I just thought. . . ." He knew the captain was disturbed by Foster's actions concerning young Hornblower, but it was worrisome -- to say the least -- if he was so affected that something as major as two apparent desertions would be of such a non-concern to him.

"That will be all then."

There was no arguing with the finality in those clipped words. "Aye, sir."

He was turning to leave when the Captain said, "Mr. Bracegirdle?"

"Yes, sir?"

Captain Pellew turned at last to face him, the emptiness of a wide, lonely sea still reflected in his eyes. "Please hold off making that notation in the ship's log, if you would be so kind."

Lieutenant Josiah Bracegirdle was nobody's fool, and what's more, he had served with this man long enough to know all his moods and mannerisms. The captain was planning something, of that much he was certain. Bracey raised his head in relief, and with a small smile quirking one side of his lips, he said, "Of course, sir."

Bracey turned to leave, but just as quickly swung back around in sudden decision. "I would be most honored if there were some way I could assist in your endeavor, sir."

"And I would be most obliged if you would mind your own damn business, Mr. Bracegirdle!"

Bracey started slightly at the vehemence in his Captain's words, his eyes wide. Before he could stammer out an apology, however, Pellew leaned over to brace himself against his desk as he rubbed his other hand across bloodshot eyes.

"Joss, I am sorry, that was totally uncalled for." Pellew sat down heavily into the chair. "I'm afraid my fatigue has made me unduly churlish." He looked up. "Your offer is appreciated, but I fear I cannot accept it."

"But, sir, surely you must know how we all value Lieutenant Hornblower and. . . ."

Pellew held up a weary hand, sitting back in his chair with a soft smile. "I have never had cause to doubt your loyalty, Joss, merely your timing of when to exercise that loyalty."

"But it is not _right_, sir, he is one of _your_ officers and. . . ."

"Not anymore." The softly spoken words fairly dripped with loss and remorse, and Bracey thought his heart might break at the sound.

"Sir?"

Pellew looked up and steepled his fingers. "It would appear that the good Captain Foster managed to reconvene the Examination Board after the fire ship incident." He closed his eyes briefly. "The Board hencewith failed Acting Lieutenant Hornblower, in absentia."

"They can't do that, surely, sir. I mean. . . ."

"They can and they _did,_ Joss. Charlie had told me the only thing that had saved the boy was the sound of the warning gun." Pellew rose suddenly and began to pace. "Dammit, it's all my fault, I should have _known_ that Foster might attempt to immediately reconvene the Board. I simply had no idea that the man wanted. . . ." He cut himself off abruptly and looked over sharply at his first lieutenant.

But Bracey was still working through the permutations of Pellew's earlier revelations and did not notice the hesitation. "And now that Horatio has been broken back down to midshipman and is no longer a commissioned officer. . . ."

"The Navy can and _will_ do whatever they want with him, without requiring my approval or sanction. He is, after all, merely another 'young gentleman.'"

Bracey was aghast. "But the _Dreadnought,_ sir? Begging your pardon, sir, but young Horatio still has far too much naive integrity to put up with Foster's shenanigans. Foster will have him either court martialled or on the gratings before they clear the harbor!"

Pellew turned again to stand facing the empty stern windows, hands behind his back. "I believe your assessment of the situation to be correct, Mr. Bracegirdle."

Bracey studied the ramrod straightness of his captain's back for a few moments and then asked quietly, "What will you do, sir?"

"Do?" Bracey could almost see the eyebrow quirking towards the hairline. "My duty, sir, which is what you shall do."

"Sir, I would really. . . ."

"Your offer is hereby noted, Mr. Bracegirdle, but it would be very much in your best interests, as well as this ship's, if you pursue this course no further." The dark head raised slightly. "That will be all, Mr. Bracegirdle."

"Aye, sir." Something dark and dangerous brought the next words to his lips, but they had to be said or he would never be able to live with himself. Bracey hesitated nonetheless. "Foster _hates_ you, sir, and he knows how . . . fond . . . you are of young Horatio," he said softly. "I don't think. . . ."

The voice coming from astern was flat and very, very low. "_Thank_ you, Mr. Bracegirdle. I will endeavor to keep that thought in mind."

\---------------------------------------

Captain "Dreadnought" Foster lifted his head momentarily when he heard the low moan rising like a wraith above the sounds of an anchored ship preparing for sea. Signing and sealing the last despatch, he sat back and gazed thoughtfully at the small partitioned room between his sleeping and working cabins from whence the sound had emanated.

He had been kept busy since arriving back on board the night before. When one has idiots and lackeys for senior officers, it was ill advisable to delegate many of the necessary functions for readying a ship for sea to those ill suited for the task. He had taken a few hours' rest between four and eight bells, but had spent the remaining time reviewing victualing reports and the like. He was pleased to discover the _Dreadnought_ would be ready for sea upon the freshening of the land breeze on the morrow.

Now, as the sun's rays sank towards the horizon once more, he had time at last to contemplate his victory, as such, over the much revered Captain Pellew. He smiled broadly to himself. The look on the good captain's face when the admiral had, almost as a non-sequitur, told Pellew that Midshipman Hornblower would _not_ be returning to the _Indefatigable_ had been almost as satisfying as watching an enemy's colors dip from her yards.

Not to mention that Hornblower himself, while undeniably having saved his life on the fire ship, still presumed far too much for one of such lowly rank and needed to be taken down a peg or two. Remembering the scene with the _Caroline_'s supplies, Foster breathed in sharply. The audacity of the boy to dare question _his_ actions! If any ship in the fleet deserved those supplies, it was most certainly the _Dreadnought_. Besides, it was next to impossible to obtain prizes and prize money when your crew was very inconveniently falling dead around your feet.

In any case, _this_ victory over Pellew would be very sweet. Pellew's possessiveness of young Hornblower was apparent to anyone with the eyes to see. Foster's lips quirked up in remembrance. Hell, Pellew had practically shoved him off the _Indefatigable_ when he had continued to make a point of singling Hornblower out with his "attentions."

But the boy had a singular presence, a seemingly unquenchable fire, and Foster was sure he would prove an engaging challenge to master.

Yes, Hornblower would have an entirely new attitude when the _Dreadnought_ next crossed paths with Captain Sir Edward Pellew, and Foster reveled in the impotent rage he imagined on his nemesis' face. The proverbial "two birds with one stone," indeed. He smiled again.

Rising slowly from his desk, he walked quietly into the entrance of the partitioned room and gazed for the first time at his prize.

The fading sun just barely stretched to the figure in the center of the small room. With the stifling heat of the Mediterranean day, the lad had twisted out from under the light sheet that was to have covered him, and he lay bare and unadorned beneath the red-gold light. The lad's breathing was light and rapid, although still unconscious or asleep -- no doubt from the laudanum Foster had directed the reluctant doctor to use in liberal doses.

The sunlight, limited as it was by the vertical crosspieces in the stern windows, seemed to avoid the stark whiteness of the bandages on the lad's shoulders and upper back and instead concentrated its rays on the equally pale expanse of soft skin below them.

Foster was momentarily taken aback by the sight. Having long ago abandoned the baser practices of the lower deck upon reaching post rank, he had for many years focused his attention on the attractions of the fairer sex. But this . . . this was a sight that suggested the possibility of a change in tack.

He felt the slow, avaricious smile spread across his face. Indeed, there was more than one way to subdue a fiery spirit.

Foster approached the cot with predatory silence. There was no doubt the lad was beautiful -- all long, sinewy limbs and dark curls -- but he knew from personal experience that intelligence and decisiveness played a large part in the young man's makeup. While Foster would occasionally bed a beautiful woman who was both insipid and vapid -- if he were desperate enough or it gained him some social advantage -- he preferred the . . . challenge . . . of a partner better suited to his own mental abilities.

He reached out a hand and slowly ran it up one lean thigh almost to the upswelling of a well-formed buttock. The lad moaned in his sleep and attempted to move away -- the sound breaking the stillness of the great cabin and instigating a shiver somewhere deep inside of Foster.

He smiled again. _Well now, Sir Edward, no wonder you were so distraught at losing your precious young lieutenant!_

__\---------------------------------------

"Passing the word for the boatswain and carpenter!"

The muffled cry from the captain's Marine sentry broke the oppressive stillness of the late evening air and Mr. Bowles started guiltily. The monotony instilled by a ship at anchor in a friendly harbor tended to cause even the best watch officer's mind to drift, and he was loathe to discover that he was no exception to this common failing. He watched intently as the order was passed down to the gun deck and was followed shortly thereafter by the huge bulk of the ship's boatswain and the portly figure of the carpenter emerging from the main companionway.

The carpenter, only half-dressed, was hurriedly trying to put himself together as the two men made their way aft toward the great cabin. While he was not normally a harsh man, everyone on board knew that _now_ was not a good time to keep the captain waiting.

"_Mister_ Bowles!" He started again as the bellowed voice of Captain Pellew clamored up through the skylight. "Is everybody damn well asleep on this ship? Where are those men I called for?"

"Coming, sir!"

Mr. Bowles straightened his spine and rolled his eyes heavenward. It was going to be a long voyage without Mr. Hornblower on board . . . and he did not mean just from having to pull the extra watches.

\---------------------------------------

Horatio awoke abruptly, still lying on his stomach, as he sensed a weight settling next to him on the small cot. Opening bleary eyes, he saw a well manicured hand braced next to his head. Tensing slightly with some form of unnamed dread, his gaze followed the hand up to an arm swathed in bright blue and gold. Finally reaching the man's face, Horatio's breath caught as he discovered, at last, on exactly whose ship he had come to reside.

"Cap . . . Captain Foster!"

Horatio made a move to rise but froze as hands settled firmly on his upper arm and low back. He felt the warmth of the smooth hand on his sweat-cooled skin and shivered slightly, at a loss to understand why he was here. If the _Indy_ was safe, why was he not aboard _her_? Had she been forced to sail without him on some mission?

And why Foster's cabin? Surely he had not been injured _that_ badly on their escape from the fire ship. In any case, Foster did not seem like a man who condoned weakness in any form and certainly would not have bothered himself with the personal care of a lowly subordinate.

Horatio looked up, wide-eyed, the questions written as plainly as the Articles of War on his expressive face.

\---------------------------------------

Mr. Bowles watched bemusedly from his position by the _Indy_'s wheel as the ship's company seemed to suddenly explode with purposeful movement.

The carpenter and boatswain had been sequestered in the captain's cabin for quite some time before they had finally emerged, eyeing each other dubiously in the low light. They had seemed determined, however, and had quickly split up about the ship on what seemed to Mr. Bowles to be exceptionally strange tasks for a ship resting quietly at anchor in a peaceful harbor.

The carpenter, Cooper, had gone below and had re-emerged rapidly with two of his mates and the hand-sewn bag of his precious tools.

Meanwhile, the boatswain had rounded up an intriguing blend of immense, barrel-chested seamen such as himself as well as several of the smaller, more compact lads, who were most often utilized when it was necessary to examine some portion of the ship below the waterline. Bowles was puzzled as to why the work crew was being tasked for this function now, so close to losing the last of the day's usable light.

He was even more puzzled when the captain's gig was hauled smartly over the side, and Cooper clambered down into the boat. He carefully and methodically stowed his bag of tools in a tightly wrapped oilskin, which was in turn placed under the thwarts of the boat amidships.

Bowles moved down to the main deck. Striding to the railing next to the entry port, he leaned over to question Cooper about the odd goings-on. This _was_ supposed to be his watch after all, and he should have been informed about any work that needed to be done on the ship.

"Is there a problem, Mr. Bowles?"

The captain's voice was directly in his ear and Bowles nearly toppled over the railing in surprise.

"N . . . no, sir," he stammered, turning to face Pellew.

The captain was staring off across the water, his mind obviously elsewhere, and he said nothing more as the boatswain's hastily assembled crew filed over the side into the gig.

Caught off guard, Bowles belatedly realized that the captain's gig being manned usually meant that the captain intended to leave in her, and he turned abruptly to call up the sideboys in preparation for Pellew's departure from the ship.

Pellew said sharply, "Belay that, Mr. Bowles. We'll dispense with the formalities for now."

"Aye, aye, sir," Bowles responded, amazed at Pellew's abandonment of a tradition as old as the navy.

"I shall be back shortly, Mr. Bowles," Pellew said at last, climbing down into the stern of the boat, a dark bundle cradled under one arm. "Please try to keep the _Indefatigable_ out of French hands until I return, if you would."

"Aye, aye, sir," Bowles replied again, straightening a little at the acerbic bite in his captain's voice. He had never seen Pellew this tense, this harsh, in all his years of sailing with him and it disturbed him to no little degree.

And as he watched the awkward stroke of the gig's oars as its mismatched crew got her underway, he wondered again as to why not a single member of the gig's _usual_ crew was manning it.

\---------------------------------------

Captain Foster's breath caught as Horatio looked up plaintively, the doe eyes wide and unsure. He knew that his continued silence was unnerving the boy, but the moment was simply too delightful to interrupt with mere words at this point.

Besides, surely Horatio could not be _that_ naive! Even if Pellew had taken his usual stultifying moral high road and not bedded the boy yet, surely _one_ of his superiors must have taken an interest in him at some point. How else could he have risen to the rank of Acting Lieutenant at such a young age otherwise?

The fall of darkness cast stark black streaks across Foster's face as he gazed downward at the young midshipman. He narrowed his focus to his own left hand resting serenely on the boy's back. The gentle pull and tug of the ship at her anchor seemed to encourage movement as he gently, very gently brushed the tips of his fingers against the soft skin of the unmarred lower back. The lad shivered violently beneath him and Foster smiled the wolf's smile, glinting lazily from the shadows.

"Are you cold, Horatio?" His low, harsh voice shattered the preternatural stillness of the big cabin and Foster noted with interest that the young man seemed to take the question at mere face value, nodding stiffly in the fading light.

Keeping one hand possessively on the lad's low back, Foster reached to the foot of the cot and slowly hauled the light sheet up Horatio's calves, thighs and up over the intriguing swell of his buttocks. By the time the sheet had finished its lingering journey, the last of the evening sun had abruptly disappeared beneath the window sill -- as if going into hiding -- and plunged the cabin into a darkness broken only by the anchor lights of the other ships anchored beyond the _Dreadnought._

Foster turned away reluctantly to light a single dim lantern on the far wall, taking his time as he turned back to the cot to avidly peruse its occupant. The thin, threadbare sheet did nothing to hide any of the lad's attributes, and the flickering soft yellow light of the lantern only highlighted the tantalizing form.

Allowing his gaze to linger on the twin orbs of the perfectly formed backside, Foster languidly began to remove his uniform coat.

The boy lay looking up at him, one hand gripping the canvas beneath him into a tight knot, his gaze an intriguing mix of uncertainty and defiance.

_Ah, the light dawns at last, doesn't it, lad? I was so hoping you were a quick study._

Still in silence, Foster sank back down onto the cot and reached for the boy's face. Abruptly, the uncertainty in the dark eyes vanished and Horatio attempted to pull back -- the defiance alone remaining on his face, as it had while looking up at him from the _Caroline_'s launch.

"Don't be foolish, boy," Foster hissed, grasping Horatio's chin and forcing his face up. "I am not the weak-willed upstart of a captain who came before me, to where I will remain a party to your blatant insubordination." He gave the chin a little shake. "You are part of _my_ crew now, and subject to _my_ rules."

Foster saw the wide-eyed comprehension in the boy's expression and nodded once, shortly. "Yes, _Mr. Midshipman_ Hornblower of His Majesty's frigate _Dreadnought,_ if I were you, I would start attempting to mold myself into a proper pattern of behavior!"

Horatio's eyes flashed briefly and then he gasped, closing his eyes tightly as a wave of visible weakness passed over him. He tried feebly to raise himself up until Foster released his chin and then flipped him violently over onto his injured back. Horatio gasped aloud at the sudden pain, trying in vain to arch his back and shoulders away from the abrasive canvas.

Smiling again, Foster used one hand to easily restrain the still drugged and injured man. He leaned down over Horatio's face. The wide eyes and trembling mouth drew him almost irresistibly down and he hovered, intent, over the soft lips. Fools may rush in, but Captain "Dreadnought" Foster was always one to carefully savor his victories. And this was one victory he had every intention of savoring.

"Boat ahoy?!"

Foster raised his head sharply as the muffled hail of his watch officer made its way from the quarterdeck above. A strange boat arriving at this time of evening was certainly unusual, but its coxswain's reply of "_Indefatigable_!" caused him to swear colorfully as he rose from the cot.

_What the hell is that meddling fool up to now?_ Foster thought to himself, as he angrily donned his coat.

Turning to Horatio, he said coldly and clearly, "I would be careful how much trouble I'd make if I were you." Sitting on the cot, he grabbed Horatio's chin again for emphasis and continued, "If the good Captain Pellew attempts anything _untoward_ with regard to your posting, I will have him in front of the admiral on charges so fast both your heads will spin." Foster rose and strode toward the cabin door, pausing to look back meaningfully.

"Remember that, Mr. Hornblower."

\---------------------------------------

"Ah, Captain Pellew, to what do I owe the honor of this visit?"

As the hastily assembled sideboys dispersed back into the gloom of the darkened ship, Pellew turned from his slow appraisal of his surroundings and faced a smiling Foster. Before he could phrase a reply, he was interrupted by a call from the boat below.

"Captain Pellew, sir!"

He turned back around and leaned over the _Dreadnought_'s side. "Yes, what is it?" he called back, unnecessarily loud.

"Permission to go back and retrieve the oar that Hendricks dropped astern, sir," came the call from his temporary coxswain, looking tight and uncomfortable in a shirt that was two sizes too small for him.

"Oh, for the love of. . . ." Pellew straightened in seeming annoyance and called back, "Go ahead, but be damned quick about it. I do not intend to be aboard long."

"Aye, aye, sir," came the relieved reply, followed shortly by, "Make way, all!" and the sounds of uneven oars pulling the boat astern of the _Dreadnought_. Pellew turned around again to face his host, who had cocked his head in amusement at Pellew's plight.

"Problem with your gig's crew, Captain Pellew?" Foster asked silkily, raising an eyebrow in query.

Pellew's lips tightened and he paused before replying. "I have a good number of my crew ashore on leave. One is forced to deal with an inexperienced boat crew on such occasions."

There was a loud splash from astern followed by yelling and more splashing. Pellew winced and drew himself up as boisterous shouts of encouragement and hoots of laughter came from the anchor watch on the _Dreadnought_'s stern.

Foster laughed aloud. "Oh, I do hope your gunnery crew is better trained than your gig's crew, Captain, or I fear His Majesty is likely to lose a fine frigate to the French on your next encounter with the enemy!"

Pellew seethed. _Damn, but I hate playing the fool for Foster like this._

Turning his head away, Pellew stared intently up at the ship's bell and said merely, "Indeed, but I am certain the _Dreadnought_ would be more than willing to rescue us from disaster should such an unfortunate occurrence arise."

A deep mocking bow. "As always, I am at your service, Sir Edward," Foster said.

There were more shouts of encouragement from astern as what sounded like a full scale brawl erupted on the _Indefatigable_'s gig accompanied by still further splashes.

Seeing that Foster was turning in that direction to investigate the commotion, Pellew hurriedly said, "Yes, actually, Captain Foster, if it would not be too terrible an inconvenience, I would appreciate the opportunity to visit with Mr. Hornblower."

Foster stopped, stiffening, and turned back with a blatantly false smile pasted on his lips. He bowed again. "Of course, Captain, how obtuse of me."

Pellew nodded once and turned to head down the companionway to the gun deck.

"Ahem, Captain Pellew, not _that_ way," Foster said with a knowing smile.

Pellew turned slowly, annoyed beyond forbearance at the man's continued impudence. "Unless the Plymouth dock yards have completely overhauled the plans for a King's frigate," he replied icily, "the sickbay berth is down _this_ way."

"Mr. Hornblower is not in the sickbay, Captain Pellew."

Pellew's breath caught in alarm. "Surely he is not unwell enough to be on the orlop?" he asked tightly. Visions of injuries sufficient enough to warrant the surgeon's treatment with knife and saw rose unbidden in his thoughts. _Dear God, not that!_

Foster leaned back, partly against the mainmast truck, obviously enjoying his guest's discomfort. "No, no, Captain Pellew, perish the thought." He held up a hand to languidly examine his nails in the glimmering lantern light. He looked up finally and added, "I merely thought it best to personally assure the boy's continued well-being." Foster smiled again and said distinctly, "He is in _my_ cabin."

A red haze fell across Pellew's eyes and he stalked forward, slamming his hand hard enough on the mainmast next to Foster's head that he thought the whole ship must feel the blow. Foster's eyes widened in surprise, obviously underestimating Pellew's response to his statement.

Pellew found that he cared little for Foster's response, and it was only the eyes of the rest of the ship and his duty as a Royal Navy officer that kept him from striking Foster himself. _Damn the man! If he had **dared** to harm Horatio. . . ._

Pellew's low voice grated like holystones on a splintered, battle-scarred deck as he finally managed to get words through his tightly clenched teeth. "I . . . want . . . to . . . see . . . him, _now._"

His eyes met Foster's from a distance of inches, and it was solely a part of Foster's reckless courage that those eyes didn't flinch, at least once the initial shock had worn off.

Those eyes flared up now in open challenge. "Of course, Captain," Foster said with his usual suaveness, obviously assured of the rightness of his actions with the Admiralty's backing. "Would you be so kind as to follow me?"

\---------------------------------------

Pellew paused before opening the stout oak door to the great cabin. Odd that it was so similar to his quarters on the _Indy_, yet it still felt for all the world as if he were about to broach an enemy stronghold.

"I'll be waiting on the quarterdeck should you need me, Captain," Foster said behind him from the gloom of the companionway. The threat was obvious: With the open skylight and the ship quietly at anchor, Pellew would have to be careful how much he said aloud. There were precious few secrets on a man of war, as well he knew.

Not bothering to turn around, Pellew nodded tightly once and listened as Foster's footsteps retreated back the way they had come.

Taking a deep breath to bolster his courage, Pellew opened the door.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust. The cabin was lit merely by a single lantern whose nearly spent candle sputtered fitfully behind the hazy glass. Focusing on the cot that was almost the sole piece of furniture in the screened off room, Pellew started in alarm.

Horatio -- it had to be Horatio, he would know that lanky form in _any_ light -- was struggling to push himself up from the cot. He was very obviously in pain and Pellew rushed forward to assist him. Without thinking, he grabbed Horatio's shoulders, but released him just as abruptly when Horatio cried out sharply.

The dark eyes that looked up at him were clouded with pain -- the pupils shrunk impossibly small -- and the eyes did not focus on Pellew's face. Making small noises of dismay, Horatio was trying to edge away from him, his long bare legs tangled in a thin sheet, his gaze fixed instead on the bright gold lace of Pellew's uniform coat.

Abruptly, Pellew made the connection and his body fairly shook with rage at what Foster must have attempted.

_And pray God only that he had not yet succeeded. . . ._

Pellew hated to see the boy in such distress, but he knew that he dare not reach out for him again, nor could he speak until he had gotten his voice back under some vestige of control. He must not let Horatio think that the rage he bore for Foster was instead directed at him. The boy was overly sensitive by nature, but Horatio had always seemed unduly concerned when he thought Pellew's anger was directed at _him._

_Gently, then, Edward. Ever so gently._

"Horatio?" He kept his voice soft, his hands unthreatening by his sides.

Horatio started again at the sound of his voice, struggling harder to move away, causing a barely stifled gasp of pain as his attempts disturbed the raw burns apparent on his upper back.

_Damn,_ Pellew seethed. _When I get my hands on Foster, he'll wish I'd never pulled him from the sea in the first place._

He tried again, a little louder. "Horatio?"

The young man looked up at him vaguely, incomprehension evident on his face, and still not ceasing his futile struggles.

Well, there was one more tack he could try. It had worked before to help focus the boy.

"Mr. Hornblower!" Pellew said loudly, allowing his voice to drop down into the register of his 'command voice.' "I would appreciate your report _now,_ if you please!"

Horatio froze, a look of dawning disbelief on his young features. "Captain Pellew?" he asked hesitantly, unbelieving, the slight tremor in the usually confident voice making it difficult for Pellew to maintain the necessary gruffness.

"If you were planning on merely laying about all day, Mr. Hornblower, I'm sure I could find _something_ productive for you to do."

Pellew waited, all his muscles taut. He was normally quite good at waiting, could stand immobile and imperturbable on his quarterdeck, holding his ship's fire until the absolute perfect moment while the very fabric of his ship rocked and cried out underneath him from an enemy broadside. But this . . . this somehow was ever so much harder.

Horatio frowned, trying to focus blurry eyes in the suffocating gloom, hope beginning to dawn on his careworn features.

_Yes, Horatio. Come back to me. . . ._

Pellew smiled in relief as Horatio unconsciously stiffened his body to attention, his eyes clearing slightly. "Sir? Captain Pellew, sir?"

When Pellew saw that Horatio had finally focused on his face, he moved forward, gently grasping Horatio by the arms and pulling him up carefully to a seated position, off his injured back.

Horatio gasped, his relief so great that he grasped Pellew and hugged him with all his waning strength, sobbing once into the coarseness of his uniform coat. He was visibly trying to pull himself together but seemed reluctant to release Pellew.

And God as his witness, Pellew found that he did not wish to let go of Horatio either. Not now, not ever.

Pellew rested his chin for just a moment on the soft curls but then stiffened when he realized just how much he was going to have to disappoint the boy.

Horatio obviously felt the tightening of his captain's back as rejection and pulled away, rubbing frantically at his eyes. "I'm s . . . sorry, sir. I did not mean to be such a bother. . . ."

"Nonsense, Mr. Hornblower." Pellew allowed his face to soften. "Seeing as you were doing a most unconvincing imitation of a turtle, I thought it prudent to intervene."

"Turtle, sir?"

The boy was still unusually imperceptive, and Pellew peered closely at Horatio's eyes, his lips tightening as he noted again the telltale pinpoint pupils of an individual under the influence of laudanum. His nostrils flared and he mentally condemned Foster once more to an appropriate flaming Hell, if there were such a thing for the likes of him.

"Yes, _turtle,_ Mr. Hornblower. A land-based reptile with a hard shell on its back," he replied teasingly. Pellew raised an eyebrow and explained, "Once you get the bloody thing flipped over, it has the devil's own time getting back up again."

Pellew got the desired soft smile from Horatio in response. Relieved, Pellew sank down to sit on the edge of the cot. He was greatly pleased when Horatio made no move to avoid his closeness, merely looking up at him with that absurd look of trust on his face.

Pellew closed his own eyes in pain. _And now you have to disprove that trust._

The sadness must have broken through to his face, because Horatio whispered softly, "You're not going to take me with you, are you, sir?"

Horatio was trying to be strong, trying to be the impassively perfect Naval officer, but the abject hopelessness in that too young voice almost broke Pellew's tight reserve nonetheless.

Pellew brought his chin up abruptly, struggling to retain control.

_Impossible to lie to that voice, even if I dared._ "No, Horatio." he said aloud. "I'm not."

A single, silent tear found its way down Horatio's cheek and he ducked his head in embarrassment, obviously feeling that he had again somehow managed to fail his commanding officer.

Pellew reached out slowly and brushed the tear away, his fingers lingering wretchedly on the soft cheek. How long had he wanted to do this? How insufferably bloody long? And now, now they had only moments.

Horatio looked up in bewildered awe, making no move to break the contact. His slight body quivered with reaction and fatigue, but the trust -- that awful trust -- was still painted brazenly across his face.

The fingers of Pellew's opposite free hand curled so hard that he was sure his nails must be drawing blood from his palm, but the pain was sufficient for him to regain his scattered wits. He was able to remove the hand that lingered on Horatio's cheek -- though it shook like a man with the ague -- but remove it he did. Pellew knew they didn't have much time.

"Horatio. . . ." Again he deliberately used the boy's given name, his chin making an abrupt upward motion to indicate the wide open skylight.

Horatio's eyes followed the movement, his body shivering in response to the implied warning, or to some recent past remembrance, Pellew did not know which.

But he was absolutely certain it was best that he _not_ know. His emotions were too far in the forefront to handle any of the details of Horatio's . . . stay aboard the _Dreadnought_, at least not without causing subsequent irreparable damage to _someone._

Unable to meet those soulful eyes, Pellew rose and looked away. "I came . . . I came to thank you for saving my ship, Mr. Hornblower," he said loudly for the benefit of listeners.

He stopped abruptly, however, as he replayed again in his mind the horrific sight of the oncoming fire ship, the unforgettable sound of roaring flames, the pungent smell of burning cordage and hemp, the inescapable approach that was as inevitable and uncaring as the change of seasons. It was a scene straight out of Hell for any ship's captain, and he had been certain, oh so certain, that his beloved _Indefatigable_ would not survive.

Then, seeing that familiar figure on the fire ship's quarterdeck, appearing like some mythical creature from the flames. . . .

"It was one of the most brave and gallant deeds I have seen in all my years of service," Pellew said, almost to himself.

And with a shock that Pellew felt to the very core of his being, he abruptly came to realize that he would have risked danger to his ship . . . his _ship_ . . . if only that beloved figure would be safe as well.

Pellew's eyes locked with Horatio's finally as he continued in a tight voice, "I find that I shall greatly miss having you aboard as one of my officers, Mr. Hornblower."

If eyes were truly the windows of the soul, he prayed devoutly that Horatio would be able to see into their depths now, for it was all he could give him, all he dare give him.

Horatio merely nodded bravely and said, "Thank you, sir. It has been an honor serving with you as well." Shaking with reaction and fatigue, he turned to slowly lie back down.

Pellew stood there, indecisive, until the boy had settled as comfortably as he could facedown on a cold, unforgiving cot. Horatio glanced up, hearing the purposeful footsteps above that bode an end to their brief sojourn.

Turning his face slightly, Horatio gazed up at Pellew hungrily, desperately, as if to hoard precious memories for an unbearably lengthy interval. He murmured softly, "Goodbye, sir."

Watching the mist form over the lad's eyes, Pellew had the sudden insane thought that so much water was bound to put out any fire, no matter how brightly it burned . . . eventually.

Captain Sir Edward Pellew turned and fled, for the first time in his life, stopping only after he had reached the empty, desolate safety of the far side of the cabin door.

\---------------------------------------

"I trust your visit with the young midshipman went well, Captain Pellew?" Foster's smug voice drifted down to Pellew from the raised quarterdeck, the bright tone dampened little by the oppressive darkness amidships.

Pellew stood next to the tumblehome -- hands laced tightly behind his back -- and stared out at the anchor lights across the harbor until he could bring himself under sufficient control to allow speech to the man. Foster's voice and manner had always stretched his nerves to the breaking point. Now he found he cared little for the outward appearances of bare civility he had always struggled to maintain before. Under the current circumstances, it seemed somehow . . . inappropriate.

He waited, letting Foster descend to the main deck and come to a halt behind him before he allowed himself to reply.

Turning slowly, outwardly calm, Pellew said softly, "If you attempt to harm him again, I assure you, Captain, you will find cause to regret it."

Foster quirked an eyebrow up in feigned surprise, obviously anticipating such a response. "Harm, Captain?" His voice was equally quiet, for Pellew's ears alone. "I, of course, have only the boy's best interests at heart, seeing that he is obviously lacking in _some_ quality that would make him into a proper King's officer."

"You are a fool, Foster," Pellew said, enunciating every word clearly, as if to a dullard who could not comprehend normal speech. "That 'boy,' as you put it, has already demonstrated more skill and daring than most officers half again his age. He is bright, an expert navigator and a natural born leader." Pellew leaned closer, his voice lowering, "And you would take that potential, and corrupt it into another of your broken, weak-willed lap dogs who can see no further than to linger in the afterglow of your daring exploits."

Foster's eyes narrowed. "Really, Pellew, you _dare_ to lecture me on such a matter. And just how pure are _your_ motives, hmm?"

"I don't know what you are implying."

Foster hissed, "No? You ramble on about potential, but I have seen the way you look at him, Captain."

Pellew straightened indignantly, opening his mouth for a bitter retort, but Foster did not allow him time to respond.

"Intelligence and bravery he has, yes, but it is not _those_ qualities you are coveting with your blatant possessiveness. The boy has passion and spirit and fire . . . and you bask in his glow as much as I do." Foster lowered his voice still further, "_You,_ Captain Pellew, are after that fire as much as I am. The only difference is that I admit to the fact."

Pellew seethed. His emotions were still a maelstrom as far as Horatio was concerned, but he knew one thing. He and Foster were _nothing_ alike in their regard for him.

"No, Captain Foster," he said aloud, shaking his head. "We are not alike. I would guide and nurture that flame. . . ." He turned, preparing to swing himself over the side. He looked back pointedly at Foster. ". . . .You, however, would merely warm your hands by that fire . . . and then allow it to flicker out after you had tired of it."

\---------------------------------------

Lieutenant Bracegirdle waited until the trill of the pipes subsided, saluting his captain. "Welcome aboard, sir," he said carefully, not liking the tightened lips and furrowed brow that meant his captain was not pleased.

Bracey glanced out over the harbor to the _Dreadnought_. "How is . . .?" he continued, knowing which ship his captain had just visited.

Pellew's head whipped around and he narrowed his eyes, very pointedly not answering the aborted question.

Bracey swallowed and subsided.

_No, not at all pleased._

Bracegirdle waited patiently, curious as to why Pellew was still waiting by the side as the members of the gig's crew climbed back aboard, but long experience telling him it was best to let the captain proceed at his own speed when he was in this mood. But still, the uncertainty of the whole situation was enough to drive Bracegirdle to distraction. He _liked_ young Hornblower -- all the officers aboard the _Indy_ did -- and he suspected just how much the lad meant to the _Indy_'s captain, as well.

Bracey's eyes narrowed as the boat's crew filed past him. A good number of them were disheveled . . . and thoroughly soaked to the skin. Shivering in the cool night air, they hurried below to a change of clothes and maybe a hot tot of rum. Bracegirdle glanced again at his implacable captain and then out over the placid, totally serene water of the harbor.

What in heaven's name had happened? If the crew had somehow capsized the boat, at least, thank God, they hadn't managed to do it with the captain aboard. He looked calm, dry, and as impeccable as always in his best sea-going uniform.

Finally, the last two members of the boat's crew clambered over the side and Bracey started in surprise. The boatswain, Bridgewater, appeared first, wearing what appeared to be the captain's coxswain's uniform coat, straining at the seams on his overlarge frame. The miserable-looking carpenter, Cooper, stood next to him, his lank hair dripping water down the sides of his pudgy face.

Pellew inspected them silently, finally biting out a terse, "Is all well, gentlemen?"

Cooper and Bridgewater glanced over at each other, and then Cooper replied, hesitantly, "Aye, sir."

The portly man paused and then opened his mouth to say something more, but Pellew cut him off with a sharp, "Thank you." And then milder, "You've both done well. Now be so kind as to get below and stop dripping on my deck."

A shaky smile from the carpenter, a brisk nod from the boatswain, and then they both turned to disappear down the companionway.

Bracey turned to his captain in confusion. "Captain Pellew, I . . . ."

Pellew turned away, hands again behind his back, staring intently at the dark outline of the _Dreadnought_ far across the murky water. "Kindly ready the ship for sea, Mr. Bracegirdle." He turned abruptly and headed for his cabin. "We sail on the morning tide."

Bracegirdle said, "Aye, aye, sir. But, Mr. Hornblower. . . ."

He stopped when he realized he was talking to the empty air. Bracey looked up into the night sky and sighed. He was more likely to get answers from the standing rigging above him than his singularly uninformative superior.

\---------------------------------------

The clamoring of the ship's bell broke the early morning stillness as Lieutenant Bracegirdle approached his captain. He came to parade rest next to him and said simply, "Anchor's hove short, sir."

"Very well."

Bracey looked out at the brightening wave of opalescent pink as the sun struggled over the horizon. Then, turning slightly, he felt the first stirrings of the land breeze on his cheek as it freshened with the new day. He glanced over at Pellew. "Breeze is coming up, sir."

"Very well."

Muffling a sigh, Bracegirdle resigned himself to another long day.

Finally, the seeming statue that was Captain Sir Edward Pellew turned its head to stare across the harbor, then back to shore and once again back across the harbor.

Bracey followed his captain's line of sight . . . and noticed with interest the flurry of activity aboard the _Dreadnought_, indicating also her readiness to put to sea.

He glanced once more at Pellew, seeing the narrowed eyes as they carefully studied the other frigate.

"Call the men to loosen sail, if you please, Mr. Bracegirdle."

"Aye, sir." Bracegirdle repeated the orders down to the main deck, and amidst the good-natured yelling of the topmen going aloft, he watched as the _Dreadnought_'s yards also began to fill with the mounds of billowing sail.

Pellew stirred. "Haul up the anchor and bring her before the wind, Mr. Bracegirdle."

"Aye, aye." Again relaying the orders to the mass of milling petty officers and seamen below, Bracey watched, amused, as the men applied themselves with a vengeance to the otherwise everyday business of getting underway.

The British Navy was proud of its accomplishments, proud of its abilities, and every ship in the fleet was certain their ship was innately superior to everyone else's, including those ships of their own fleet. As such, there was always an unspoken competition when two ships left harbor at the same time as to which ship would beat the other out to sea -- which crew and ship were, as a result, the better sailors. _Indefatigable_'s crew was no different, with the added impetus of an esprit de corps brought about by an even-handed, experienced captain and a well seasoned crew.

Bracey had no doubts as to which ship would be first out into the straits.

The sheets of the main yards were hauled fast, trimmed, and the _Indy_ picked up speed like the fine thoroughbred she was.

But the _Dreadnought_ was also underway, the foaming froth at her bow increasing as the freshening land breeze caught her mains'ls and then her tops'ls, as they were in turn hauled fast to her yards.

Bracey looked at his captain questioningly.

With a brief nod of his head, Pellew said merely, "Proceed, Mr. Bracegirdle."

Bracey cupped his hands together and yelled up into the rigging, "Loose the tops'ls!"

With commendable alacrity, the tops'l sheets were secured, caught the breeze and billowed tight, the rigging above them moaning slightly at the increased strain from the wind.

Bracey nodded in satisfaction. They were pulling up fast on the _Dreadnought_ now and should soon be able to overhaul her enough to secure the wind-gage, if the gods of fate were so kind. It would be a poor victory to win the race for the harbor mouth and lose an officer as promising as Mr. Hornblower, but it would have to be sufficient given the circumstances.

Pellew moved for'ard slowly, still staring intently at the _Dreadnought_, now slightly off their port bow. He eyed Mr. Bowles, who -- as sailing master -- was standing next to the seaman manning the wheel. "Bring her port two points, if you would, Mr. Bowles," Pellew said.

"Sir?" The outright disbelief in Mr. Bowles' tone was evident to everyone on the quarterdeck and Bracey found he quite easily shared that disbelief. The _Indy_'s best point of sailing was directly before the wind, which they should be able to maintain for some minutes yet before having to make the final starboard tack to the harbor mouth.

From a simple seamanship point of view, the order to bring her up further into the wind made absolutely no sense.

Pellew's voice held a faint hint of steel as he rasped, "Just carry out my orders, if you please, _Mister_ Bowles."

Mr. Bowles snapped rigidly to attention and said, "Aye, sir." He nodded sharply to the quartermaster who in turn carefully made the course correction, wary of bringing the captain's displeasure down onto himself.

Pellew returned to the port rail, hands clasped behind his back. His head tilted, but he did not turn around. "See to it that the yards are trimmed, Mr. Bracegirdle. This is not a pleasure cruise we're about."

Bracey sighed. Leaning over the quarterdeck railing, he yelled down to the petty officers on the main and foremasts to carry out the order. Maintaining a careful distance from his testy captain, he leaned out over the port railing. Although they were now actually closer to the _Dreadnought_ with their change of course, she had managed to pull ahead of the _Indy_ slightly since the wind was still full on her beam.

_How Foster must be loving this stern chase,_ Bracey thought bitterly. Pellew was an outstanding seaman, almost as familiar with the _Indy_'s sailing properties as the master, and it was simply not like him to make such an obvious mistake in a familiar harbor.

Motion caught Bracey's eye and he glanced over at Pellew as he unclasped his hands and moved them to grasp the railing. The captain's knuckles whitened with the fierceness of their grip and Bracey watched as the captain moved his gaze slowly from the _Dreadnought_, forward of the _Indy_ toward the fast-approaching rocks of the harbor entrance and then back to the _Dreadnought_. He had seen his captain focused like this many times as he eyed the distances and angles for an approaching attack, and Bracey stirred slightly, a light beginning to dawn.

As the _Dreadnought_ pulled still further ahead, Mr. Bowles muttered aloud, obviously no longer able to contain his frustration, "She's getting away!"

"Getting away, Mr. Bowles?" The captain made no effort to restrain the frost in his voice. "What would you have me do, sir? Fire a warning shot across her bow?" He turned his upper body around to face the wheel, but his hands never left their death grip on the railing. "It is my understanding that the _Dreadnought_ is still a ship of His Majesty's Navy, unless you are party to information to which I am not aware?"

"N . . . no, sir." A deep breath. "Sorry, sir."

"Apology noted, Mr. Bowles." Pellew glanced again out at the lively frigate ahead of them. "Now, bring her back around and see about getting the best speed on her, if you please, Mr. Bowles."

"Aye, sir!" came the relieved reply.

Again the flurry of activity as the ship swung her graceful nose and picked up her heels once more. They would soon have to round on the starboard tack to avoid the shoaling rocks of the harbor mouth, but for now she flew directly before the wind. She was still behind the _Dreadnought_, but the _Dreadnought_ would be forced to tack even sooner than the _Indy_ due to her proximity to the cliffs and. . . .

Bracey drew his breath in sharply, and Pellew glanced over at him curiously. Bracegirdle looked from the _Dreadnought_ and back to the headland, and Pellew made no move to answer his unspoken question.

The _Dreadnought_ would, by now, have already tacked had she not been forced into maintaining the wind-gage by Pellew's move to close the physical distance between their ships. Oh, she would still beat them out of the harbor if _Dreadnought_ maintained this tack only a little further, but she would have to tack soon and bring her bow further around -- and much sharper around -- than she would have were she on a normal passage.

Bracey knew the captain would _never_ be the cause of forcing another king's ship aground, nor was the _Dreadnought_ in any danger thus far of doing so, but why these seemingly senseless maneuvers?

The usual boisterousness of the _Indy_'s crew was dimmed as the faint calls of laugher and derision wafted from the _Dreadnought_'s crew, carried abaft by the wind. _They_ knew there was no way for the _Indy_ to beat them now. But still, amazingly, the _Dreadnought_ did not come about on the final tack.

Amidst the humming of the vibrating rigging and the splash of the water as it poured from the _Indy_'s plunging bow, Bracey listened in surprise as the captain murmured under his breath, "Yes, Foster, wait for it. . . ."

Bracey nodded. Of course Foster would want to make a dramatic show of it. Waiting until the last minute and bringing her hard over, as only a finely handled ship could do, to make the final triumphant reach out of the harbor. Foster would want the biggest lead possible to demonstrate his superiority over that of his rival astern.

Then, finally, Bracey saw the _Dreadnought_'s sails shiver as her yards were pulled over and she started to bring herself about on the starboard tack.

The captain's voice cleaved like a marlinespike through the resulting tension. "Mr. Bowles! Bring her back to port, as close as she'll bear!"

Bracey froze, aghast, but Mr. Bowles had learned his lesson regarding questioning his captain's orders, no matter how odd they seemed. The _Indy_'s bowsprit continued to swing ever further to port.

Bracey looked back out across the now choppy waters toward the _Dreadnought_, fully expecting her to have completed her tack and be laid over nicely on her new course. But, incredibly, she was still swinging around to starboard, her sails now fluttering wildly in disarray as she came too far around for the wind to bear. _What the hell . . . ._

Turning his head to see what Pellew was making of this spectacle, the _Dreadnought_ now almost fully aback, Bracey was surprised to find a look of something approaching satisfaction on his stoic captain's face. "Bring us around astern of her, Mr. Bowles. Easy now, take the way off her."

Bracey called out the order to reduce sail and turned back around to watch the _Dreadnought_. Her sails were being brailled up as the anchor plunged down from her bow, the ship still trying to pull relentlessly to starboard with her momentum until the anchor finally brought her up short.

The _Indy_ edged around the stern of the stricken ship, and as the helmsman brought her up into the wind, the _Indy_ came to a graceful gliding stop to within easy hailing distance of the _Dreadnought_.

Captain Pellew straightened finally, calm and in control once more, a slight smile reaching his lips. "Let go the anchor, Mr. Bracegirdle. I do believe that Captain Foster may be in need of our assistance."

\---------------------------------------

"Sir! Mr. Hornblower, sir!"

Horatio felt the incessant shaking from the hand on his right arm but could find no reason to rouse himself from his stupor. There were bad things about in the land of the conscious and he found he was not yet strong enough to face them.

"Please, sir! You must wake up! Sir!" The voice was very low, but firm in its insistence nonetheless.

Horatio merely burrowed his face deeper into his arms and willed the world and his tormenter to go away.

"Sir, it's Styles, sir, you _must_ wake up."

_Styles? How in the world. . . ?_ Horatio forced open his salt-laden eyelids and found that it was _indeed_ Styles, although his head was mostly covered by a dark bandanna and he looked almost like a pirate with the beginnings of an unkempt beard.

Styles was glancing back in the direction of the cabin door, a bundle wrapped in dark oilskin under one arm. When he saw that Horatio was awake and looking at him, he slumped down in relief.

"Oh, good, sir." He looked up at the skylight and winced at the angry shouts coming from the quarterdeck above.

With Styles' assistance, Horatio was able to sit up on the cot, swaying slightly as he tried to regain his equilibrium. He looked about in confusion, the bright daylight streaming through the windows as he felt the violent, snubbed motions of a ship anchored in a less than sheltered location.

Very odd, since Foster had made it plain to him the night before that it would be a long time before he was to see the _Indy_ again, if ever, because they were to be sailing on the morning tide. Foster had seemed too angry and restless to plague Horatio much after Horatio's captain . . . his _former_ captain, had left. _Thank the stars for that._

But there seemed to be an excessive amount of commotion for a ship at anchor -- with the sounds of hurrying feet and bellowed orders.

Styles shoved the bundle at him. "Come, sir, we don't have much time."

Horatio unwrapped the oilskin with still less than nimble fingers. He looked up at Styles in surprise as it finally fell open. "My uniform?"

"Compliments of the cap'n, sir." Styles screwed up his face in concentration. "'E said not to damage this 'un, sir, or there'd be 'ell to pay."

Horatio snorted in amusement as he struggled to put on the layers of clothing. The shirt and coat were the most difficult, but with Styles' help, he was finally able to manage without passing out. He slid on his breeches while still lying on the cot, not yet trusting his unsteady legs.

Styles was still looking around nervously, very much aware he would be in deep trouble if the captain or one his officers should find him in this cabin without permission.

"What now, Styles?" Horatio asked, still trying to get his wits about him.

With a look of confusion on his face, Styles said, "The cap'n said you'd figure somethin' out, sir, seein' as. . . ." He struggled again to repeat the words exactly, looking upward in concentration, "'. . . .Mr. Hornblower thinks very well on his feet,' 'e said."

With another snort of laughter, Horatio slid carefully to the deck and swayed up against Styles, the big man grabbing hold of him to keep him from falling. Once the wave of dizziness passed, Horatio added, "Let's hope I can manage to _stay_ on my feet, and then we'll worry about the thinking part." He passed a hand over his sweating brow. "Now, why don't you tell me what the bloody blue blazes is going on around here?"

\---------------------------------------

"I know the damn thing is jammed, what I want to know is _how,_ Mr. Robinson." Foster didn't stop in his pacing back and forth across the quarterdeck, seething with anger and humiliation that _this_ should happen now -- in front of that bloody insufferable Pellew and his entire crew.

When the seaman at the wheel had not centered the helm as the _Dreadnought_ completed her change in tack, Foster had been angry enough to have the man stripped right there and flogged 'round the fleet. It was only after he had stormed over to the wheel and attempted to right her himself that he had encountered the true difficulty. The wheel was jammed, not merely unresponsive as would happen if a tiller cable had broken, but jammed tight with the rudder hard over. He had been forced to drop anchor, as any ship would be totally unnavigable in such a condition.

Fair to say, it was not a situation Foster had ever come across before, even in the heat of battle, and he damned well wanted an answer _now,_ or he'd have a few of his incompetent _officers_ at the gratings as well.

Robinson was standing stiffly at attention, his face an impassive mask. "We don't know yet, sir, I have the men below checking the tiller and the pulleys. It's possible. . . ."

Foster swung around and stuck a finger into his first lieutenant's chest. "Possible, _possible,_ you say? I want _answers,_ man, not possibilities!"

"Ahoy there, _Dreadnought_!" The familiar hated voice was as clear as if he were standing next to him, and it caused Foster to stiffen again in rage. Spinning on a heel, he strode to the rail and glared at Pellew standing languidly on his orderly deck. The _Indy_'s crew were skylarking along the rails, obviously enjoying how the tables had turned in their impromptu race to the sea.

Pellew called over, "I'm sending a boat's crew over to assist you, Captain Foster, and. . . ."

This . . . this was the last straw. Foster gripped the rails hard with one hand as he yelled back, "Absolutely not, Captain Pellew, we have everything well in hand and do not need. . . ."

"Deck there!" The call from the _Dreadnought_'s maintop interrupted him, and Foster swung around again.

"_What the bloody hell is it now?_" he yelled up, forgetting in his aggravation to let the officer of the deck handle the lookout's hail.

"Sail off the headland, sir. Schooner -- a big 'un." There was a brief pause. "A Frenchie by the looks of 'er, sir!"

Foster swore, colorfully, and in several different languages. He swung over to his first lieutenant. "Beat the men to quarters, Mr. Robinson. And you bloody damn well get that helm fixed _now,_ or I'll know the reason why!"

\---------------------------------------

Lieutenant Bracegirdle looked up through the mass of rigging to the maintop. He heard the rhythmic drumming and felt through the deck timbers the frenzied preparations as the _Indy_'s men were called to quarters, but he had long ago trained himself to ignore such distractions. For now . . . now he had a puzzle to solve.

He simply could not understand _why_ the _Indy_'s lookout had failed to see the schooner's tops'ls when it was clear enough to the _Dreadnought_'s crew that the strange sail had already been identified. He and the captain had, of course, looked through the ship's telescope, but the angle was too low to see over the massed headland beyond the harbor.

_Gross negligence it was_, Bracey decided, fuming. And he would have none of that on _his_ ship. He cupped his hands, preparing to frame an angry question to the lookouts frantically moving about in the maintop.

Captain Pellew swung abruptly around from his position on the railing, and somehow, unaccountably, managed to swing the bore of the telescope hard enough into Bracey's midsection that it knocked the wind out of him. Bracey bent over, whooping for air.

Pellew's hands came around to brace his first lieutenant's shoulders, saying loudly, "Heavens! I do apologize, Mr. Bracegirdle. That was unforgivably clumsy of me."

Bracegirdle managed to look up, surprised, as the captain's hands tightened significantly on his shoulders.

Pellew, leaning over solicitously, waited until he saw that he had Bracey's attention and then gave the smallest, almost imperceptible shake of his head.

Bracey's eyes widened in sudden comprehension and he smiled, straightening slowly. "I'll be fine now, thank you, sir," he said, with an answering nod.

"Good man!" Pellew said brightly, then turned to the boatswain, hovering out of sight behind the mizzenmast. "Get that boat launched _now,_ boatswain," he said softly.

\---------------------------------------

Hornblower and Styles had just managed to exit the captain's cabin -- the Marine guard still unaccountably missing -- when the unmistakable drum beat began to echo through the big frigate.

As they made their way to the companionway ladder, they encountered a work crew coming back from astern. By the harried expression on the petty officer's face, this must be the crew tasked for finding the difficulty with the tiller. Not an enviable job with a captain such as Foster, no doubt.

"You, there!" Horatio called sharply. The men came to a stumbling stop, the petty officer in charge straightening as he made out Hornblower's uniform in the dim glow of the passageway. The uniform, of course, was still that of a lieutenant and he saw the confusion on the man's face, not recognizing this strange officer.

"Yes, sir?"

"I'm to take charge of this work crew."

Horatio smiled inwardly as he saw the look of relief pass across the seaman's face. Obviously, with the call to quarters, he had been left in charge as the officers were summoned to their respective stations, and the man was not relishing the prospect of reporting to his captain.

"Aye, _aye,_ sir!"

Leaning back unobtrusively against Styles as yet another wave of dizziness passed through him, Horatio breathed in deep, trying to clear his head. "Have you checked the rudder itself yet?" Horatio finally managed to ask the petty officer through clenched teeth.

"Nooo, sir, just the tiller. It seemed unlikely that. . . ."

"What's your name, man?" Horatio snapped out.

"Billings, sir, carpenter's mate," the man replied apprehensively.

"Have your men grab some ropes, Billings. You're about to get wet."

\---------------------------------------

Horatio breathed a sigh of relief as Matthews dropped down from the mainmast ratlines as he and his makeshift work crew came up through the gangway. Horatio and his two men remained behind as the _Dreadnought_'s work crew hurried aft toward the quarterdeck.

"Good to see ye up an' about, sir," Matthews said, a broad smile on his face. He had his head wrapped also in a colorful bandanna, although Horatio doubted the two men's thin attempt at disguise was necessary. Foster wouldn't bother to perceive a mere seamen as a separate individual, and Horatio was certain he would not recognize them as having come from the _Indy_. Foster saw only what he wanted to see, Horatio thought bitterly.

The bustle and commotion of men rushing around them as they prepared the ship for battle parted around them as Horatio managed a smile of gratitude. "And you, Matthews, busy as ever, I hear," Horatio said, glancing up at the lookout's post on the mainmast top.

"Oh, aye, sir," Matthews grinned. His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "But ye know, I've been havin' some troubles with my eyes, sir. Sails, clouds . . . they're beginnin' to look summat alike t' me, I'm a'fearin."

Horatio laughed. "Well, we'll just have to get that looked at, Matthews." He winced as he heard Foster bellowing at some poor wretched soul on the quarterdeck. "Later, I'm afraid," he said, and he very quickly outlined his plan to Matthews.

Matthews looked dubious, at best. "I hope you knows what you're doin', sir."

"I hope so, too, Matthews. I hope so, too," Horatio replied, and still leaning on Styles, began to make his careful way aft.

\---------------------------------------

"The ship is cleared and ready for action, Captain Pellew," Lieutenant Bracegirdle said, a broad smile on his face. "In record time, too, sir."

Pellew acknowledged that with a nod, his mind preoccupied with the difficulties he knew he'd encounter in the next few minutes. He waited, impatiently, praying that Horatio was well enough to play his own part in this debacle, or it would be all for nought. He could not stall for much longer without raising Foster's suspicions, however preoccupied he might be. Not with an enemy sail having been sighted within easy striking distance.

_Come on, Horatio! Get yourself over the side!_

That would of course be grounds for desertion, but Pellew could only hope that Foster would be too involved with his quest for prize money and glory to pursue the matter right away. He knew also that he was inviting a court martial of his own should his deprecations against the _Dreadnought_ ever come to light, but he would deal with that also, if it came to that.

Cooper and his men were already in the water, out of sight under the _Dreadnought_'s overhanging stern and waiting for Pellew's signal, but they were running out of time. He stiffened as he saw heads peering down over the _Dreadnought_'s stern. If the _Dreadnought_'s crew found the trouble with the rudder before Cooper could remove. . . .

Then he saw him -- the long, lanky figure in blue standing shakily on the _Dreadnought_'s quarterdeck in the bright morning haze, confronting a suddenly very intent Captain Foster.

"Oh, what are you doing _there,_ Mr. Hornblower?" Pellew said softly, not even realizing he had spoken aloud.

\---------------------------------------

"And what are you doing _here,_ Mr. Hornblower?"

Foster's voice was low and dangerous, and Horatio stifled an answering shudder. He would have nightmares for years to come hearing that voice, but he would not let it defeat him, he _wouldn't._

"I heard the ship being cleared for action and am reporting for duty, sir."

Foster glared at him, his lips pursing in anger. "Well, you can get below _now_ and. . . ."

He was interrupted by the loud call of, "Weigh anchor, prepare to make sail!" that came from the _Indefatigable_'s quarterdeck.

Foster spun around, snarling to no one in particular, "Damnit, Pellew, can't wait to grab the prize money, can you?"

"I think I can fix the steering, sir," Horatio said confidently, standing as straight as he could with the burns still searing his shoulders.

"What?!" Foster turned, narrowing his eyes, and said derisively, "What would _you_ know of such things, boy?"

Horatio looked away briefly towards the _Indy_, and said, "I spent a long time in the _Indy_ as officer in charge of the mizzenmast crew, sir." He locked eyes with Foster, "I made it a point of learning as much as I could about the after end of the ship, and . . . I've read of a ship encountering this problem before in the _Gazette,_ sir."

Foster stalked up to Horatio, stopping mere inches from his face. "And _I_ think you're. . . ."

"Man the braces!" Another call from the _Indefatigable_.

Horatio's breathing quickened. The _Indy_ would be forced to leave if Foster didn't allow. . . .

"Ahoy there, Foster!" Captain Pellew's voice, sounding smug and self-satisfied. "Seeing as you're still encountering difficulties, I'm afraid we'll have to see you back in port, _with_ our prize! Good luck, Captain!"

Foster's nostrils flared, but he didn't turn around to answer Pellew's hail. Still staring at Horatio, he said tightly, "Get about it then, Hornblower." He paused significantly. "But you had better be correct, or your lessons will start a little earlier than I'd originally planned."

Foster turned on Robinson. "Get the men on the braces, heave the anchor short and prepare to make sail. I'll not be deprived of my prize, you hear?"

Horatio moved aft and quickly directed the work party. "Tie those ropes off there, smartly now!" As the crew prepared to lower themselves over the stern rail, Horatio directed, "The rudder itself is probably fine, check the pintles and gudgeons for any obstructions, the uppermost ones first."

Now, if they could only time this correctly. He'd prefer not to actually have to jump and have Foster lay a charge of desertion on him. . . .

"Anchor hove to, sir!"

"Loose the tops'ls and bring her about, Mr. Bracegirdle." The orders from the _Indy_'s crew were almost as audible as those being yelled back and forth on the _Dreadnought_, so close were the two ships.

Horatio waited, hanging over the stern as if to view the men slowly descending the knotted ropes. _Come on, Captain Foster,_ he seethed inwardly. _Give the order!_

"Make all sail, Mr. Robinson!"

"But, sir. . . ."

Foster's reply was immediate. "I said make all sail, Robinson! I'll have the damned rudder blown away if I have to, but I'll not let the _Indefatigable_ get ahead of us."

He spun around to glare at Horatio. "_Mister_ Hornblower, I need steerage way _now_, damn you!"

The men stationed at the mizzenmast swarmed around and up the ratlines, loosing the spanker sail and hauling it fast. Horatio watched as Matthews and Styles took their place on deck at the mizzenmast's running rigging, making as if to properly belay the spanker boom running horizontally across the aft deck.

Suddenly, even before Horatio's work crew could reach the water, the _Dreadnought_'s quartermaster yelled out that the wheel was free.

Horatio watched as Foster grinned in triumph, calling out to cut the anchor cable and bring the ship about.

And then all hell broke loose on the _Dreadnought_'s afterdeck.

\---------------------------------------

_Jump, damn you, Horatio._ Pellew stared at the _Dreadnought_'s stern as if he could make the boy obey him through sheer will alone. He'd been amazed that Foster had let Horatio that close to the ship's side in the first place, but what in hell was the boy waiting for now?

Lieutenant Bracegirdle appeared by Pellew's side, looking distraught. "Orders, sir?"

The _Indy_ was slowly coming around before the wind under the pressure of her tops'ls only, but they would all too soon be past the languishing _Dreadnought_, leaving a few of their crew behind under the _Dreadnought_'s stern.

Pellew said nothing, clenching his jaw.

Abruptly, he shifted forward in surprise as utter chaos erupted aboard the other ship.

"Heavens!" Pellew managed at last, finally grasping Horatio's plan, a broad smile erupting across his face.

\---------------------------------------

As the _Dreadnought_'s anchor cable was cut and she began to pay off before the wind, Matthews and Styles suddenly let go of the belaying rope for the spanker boom, yelling artistically as they both fell backwards to the deck. As the ship continued to pay off, the heavy spanker boom -- freed of its confinement -- started to swing from its position amidships around to starboard as its big sail caught the sturdy breeze.

There were shouts and curses from everywhere as the swinging boom pivoted around its axis, sweeping the quarterdeck like a scythe. Foster, Robinson and the other officers flung themselves to the deck as the boom whistled menacingly overhead.

Foster, swearing incandescently as he started to rise from the deck, yelled for the shocked seamen to capture the errant boom.

Meanwhile, the quartermaster, trying to keep the ship under control as the wind pushed her around under pressure from the pivoting spanker, swung the wheel round wildly in the opposite direction.

The _Dreadnought_ \-- always a compliant vessel when she was able -- now quite cheerfully and briskly answered her helm.

The men running to the starboard side after the boom stopped suddenly. The spanker, with the change in the angle of the wind and the canting of the ship to port under control of her rudder, started to swing back in the opposite direction. Rapidly gaining speed, the spanker boom this time swept viciously around to port, sending Foster and the rest of the afterdeck crew again sprawling inelegantly to the deck planks.

Horatio waited on the port taffrail, watching with wide eyes as the seemingly possessed boom gained speed in its inexorable approach. He gulped.

Sometimes things went just a little _too_ well according to plan. . . .

\---------------------------------------

"Bring her up into the wind, now!" Pellew snapped out his orders, his eyes never leaving the melee on the _Dreadnought_'s quarterdeck.

He heard Bracegirdle, ever the efficient lieutenant, give the orders to luff the sails, further breaking their forward speed.

But Pellew could only watch in dawning horror as the spanker boom swung viciously back around, knowing full well, as did Horatio, that it was most certainly _not_ going to wait patiently amidships for the crew to manhandle her back into submission. It swung madly around to port, and Acting Lieutenant Horatio Hornblower, in a heroic yet foolish effort to bring his ship under control, stood to his full gangly height and made every attempt to stop the swinging boom at its furthest reach. . . .

. . . .By catching it with his body.

\---------------------------------------

Horatio intended to covertly jump backwards a split second before the boom hit, lessening the impact, but injured and still foggy, he misjudged the timing somewhat. The resultant scream as he was swept over the _Dreadnought_'s side was therefore not entirely feigned.

He hit the water, hard, and as he sputtered his way to the surface, he heard only vaguely the frantic cries of "Man Overboard!" emanating from both ships.

And as his waterlogged clothing started to drag him down, bruised and unutterably tired, Horatio realized he didn't have to feign the appearance of a man drowning, either.

\---------------------------------------

Captain Sir Edward Pellew rushed down the quarterdeck steps to the entry port, hurriedly removing his uniform jacket. Angrily pushing a path clear through the men lollygagging along the side, he started to lever himself over.

The crew of the _Dreadnought_ finally had the boom and ship under control, and as she rapidly began to gather speed, two figures leapt from the _Dreadnought_'s quarterdeck, preceded loudly by cries of, "We'll save ye, sir!"

Pellew froze.

Of course. The boy obviously had this segment planned as well, and he relaxed somewhat with that knowledge. But damn it all, did the boy have to make _quite_ such a convincing performance?

_I'm getting far too bloody old for this sort of thing._

As the swimming figures approached a weakly struggling Horatio, Pellew could finally identify Styles and Matthews with certainty.

Just before Horatio's dark head slipped under the water.

\---------------------------------------

Mr. Midshipman Horatio Hornblower came slowly back to consciousness, the feel of canvas rough against his cheek. He levered his bleary eyes open and squinted against the sun blazing through the broad expanse of stern windows.

He moaned and closed his eyes tightly shut again. No! Not again. He had been so _sure_. . . .

"_Mister_ Hornblower!"

Horatio started in surprise, opening one eye and struggling to see clearly the figure framed eerily in the midday light, outlined in a fiery halo like the sun during an eclipse.

The voice was all too clear, however. "That, sir, had to have been the most ill-conceived, reckless, foolhardy. . . ."

The figure before him breathed in sharply, evidently unable to come up with the appropriate adjective.

Horatio smiled, well content, relaxing back down onto the cot. "'Idiotic,' sir?" he supplied helpfully.

"Yes, yes, that's it -- thank you, Mr. Hornblower -- the most _idiotic_ plan I have ever encountered in all my years of service!"

Horatio basked in the glow of that voice, warmed to his core. "I seem to remember a certain commanding officer of mine telling me, 'Any plan that succeeds is a good one.' Might that have been you, sir?"

"Impudent scoundrel. You are fortunate indeed that the _Indefatigable_ has been assigned to another station, far from the Gibraltar fleet, or I'd put you off my ship in an instant, sir."

"Yes, sir."

A warm weight settled down next to him and Horatio froze, not even daring to breathe. It had felt like a dream, or a nightmare -- his time aboard the _Dreadnought_ \-- and he was still afraid that the encounter with his beloved captain in that great cabin had been imagined as well.

When Horatio finally felt the callused palm resting gently against his cheek, he sighed in relief and looked up into warm, smoldering eyes. A fire, he now knew without any doubt, which burned only for him.

"Welcome aboard, dearest Horatio."

 

&lt;end&gt;  



End file.
